


Dread

by Slaycinder



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (not...really?), F/M, Lavellan's dreams, Post-Trespasser, spoilers (sort of?)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slaycinder/pseuds/Slaycinder
Summary: The dream never starts the same way, but it greets her every night like the familiar glint of gold around an old enemy’s neck.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some brief poetic prose inspired by the Solavellan hell spiral. Enjoy~

“Dread”

The dream never starts the same way, but it greets her every night like the familiar glint of gold around an old enemy’s neck, a beautiful beast who clings to his mask with half a heart, a moon, only ever showing half his face. The wolf arrives without being seen, speaks without his voice, a touch of breath against the cheek, felt but never seen. He treads behind the pall of sleep, the dream curling around him like smoke. 

On the first night she dreams of mirrors, a ghost passing through silver pools, stretching across distance and time. She feels the light at the end of the world, is burned by its celestial heat; but what blinds her is a kiss that tastes like forever, a love that dies on the lips because what they had was real; but the truth sank through them like sand. What they had is gone. What was real has changed. She swims in that glimpse of the past until the pain wakes her up. 

On the second night, the dream is nothing, just the heavens spilling open in her eyes. 

On the third night she dreams of lies the color of the sea, caresses frozen on the mouth, joy carried in the bones like a chill, a sickness given like a gift. She could have torn the world asunder, but he was the one who struck, pulling the blood of the past from her skin and leaving her less than what she was, naked in the silence.

On the forth night she dreams of the hand. Fingers swallowed by the sun. A price paid with grinding teeth and pressing lips. This time the kiss tastes like falling, hands clasping like the talons of eagles as they cartwheel to the ground, goodbyes rushing up to meet them until they part, breaking ways at the last possible instant, each spiraling away in the dizzying air; except he takes her talons with him when he goes, and once again she is less. 

On the fifth night she doesn’t dream at all, just cries into a darkness as deep as the sky.  


On the sixth night she avoids the wolf. Props her eyes open and stares at a broken moon, at a sweet light sifting through cold, hoarfrost clouds. 

On the seventh night, the wolf avoids her. The dream slides in, cool and crooning as a creek, and fills her head with flowers and sunlight. Voices dance up from ancient water, she feels them sing though the air is empty. The beauty is a glittering shadow, an impression of what was torn away. He is absent, but the dream still takes his shape. The winds in the grass roll after him, the sky bleeds light where he walked. He tried to spin her an illusion, but she cannot be fooled. She smells the smoke beyond the silken webs.  


On the eighth night, she dreams of pain, of magic needles threading history into her cheeks. She dreams of pride and joy, of age and strength and blossoming dawn. She dreams of becoming more, then awakes to find that she is less.

On the ninth night, she calls but goes unanswered. She sits among the flowers and sunlight, and deconstructs herself. For the first time she dreams without the hand. The dream is equal and honest. Her hand is no longer here. And neither is he.

On the tenth night the illusion is complete. She dreams of everything and nothing, of the waking world with its emptiness and its agony, of the material, the crushing, the real. The heavenly scar outshines the sun, and only her delirious heart can sense the wolf. It treads the edges of her grief, dropping trinkets and memories to remind her that there was once a man behind the haze. Her promise goes unchallenged, that someday her skeins will draw them back together, that being less makes her lighter, swifter, softer—a spirit who doesn’t miss its host. In the dream she cries out, promises to give chase. The wolf catches like a light in her eyes, and is gone before she wakes.


End file.
